Play it again, p.24
Play It Again, page 24
“I just wish I could see,” Dickie said.
“Well, yeah, that would help.” Joe grunted as he worked his body on the floor. “You feel my legs?” It was hard for Joe to know how close he had them to Dickie’s hands. And it wasn’t easy raising them off the ground with both tied together.
“Yeah, I feel your leg.”
“All right, feel around for the knife.”
Joe felt Dickie’s hands, just above where the rope was tied. “Other leg,” he said, shifting again to get the knife as close as possible to Dickie’s fingers.
“I don’t want to cut my hand,” Dickie said.
“You’re not going to cut your hand. Just relax. And what’s the alternative? Stay down here, wait to see what they’re going to do with us?”
Dickie’s fingers moved around as Joe shifted to get into a better position. “I got it!” Dickie said, huffing out a laugh. He unsnapped the strap holding the knife in place and used his fingers to pull it from the sheath.
Joe felt a tug on his leg, then heard a clanking sound as the knife fell onto the hard floor.
“Oh shit,” Dickie said. “I dropped it.”
“I realize that,” Joe said. He lowered his legs from the back of Dickie’s chair and rolled to his side. The knife couldn’t be far, although he hadn’t fully thought the whole maneuver through. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he said. “But I’m going to try picking it up with my mouth. If I can do it, I’ll put it back in your hands.”
“You’re going to what? Are you nuts, Joey? No, no way. That’s not going to work. How are you going to—”
“You’re going to have to trust me. I just told you we have no other choice.”
“Jesus Christ, Joey. I can’t see a thing. There’s no way this is going to—”
“You have any other ideas?”
Dickie didn’t answer.
Joe said, “Can you snap your fingers, anything to help me get in the right position as soon as I pick up the knife.”
“This rope is tight, I can tell you that. But, yeah, I can move my fingers. I just, I don’t see how we’re going to do this.”
Joe pushed himself up into a seated position so his hands were touching the floor. “Once I get it in your hands, all you’ll have to do is hold the knife straight out behind you. I’ll do the rest.” He moved himself around the floor, turning like hands on a clock, pushing himself with his tied-up feet until he finally felt the knife. “Got it,” he said, grabbing it by the blade with both hands. He slid himself closer to the back of Dickie’s chair. “I’m going to raise myself up. I’m holding the blade toward me, so all you have to do is grab the handle. Do me a favor and snap your fingers. I’ll use it to guide me.” Joe had his back pressed against the back of the chair, the blade turned slightly down in his hands so it wouldn’t press right through his own skin if he went too far. “You feel it?” he said.
“No, I…”
Joe felt Dickie’s fingers on his hands. “Ouch!” Dickie said.
“You got it, Dickie. Grab the handle. You got it?”
Dickie’s fingers moved over Joe’s until he finally had the knife’s handle in his grasp. “Okay, Joey. I got it.”
“Now, hold the blade out straight, away from you.” Joe could feel the sweat and heat coming from Dickie’s body on the other side of the chair. He went slow, being careful as he tried to get his hands in position over the knife. He used his hands to feel for it, inching closer to the blade.
“I think I’m there,” he said, somewhat under his breath. “Okay, now try not to move. And make sure you have a firm grip. You drop it, we’ll have to start this all over.” Joe looked around in the darkness, wishing his eyes would adjust.
He positioned the knife on the rope between his wrists and slowly started to move his hands back and forth, the rope against the blade.
“Is it working?” Dickie said, practically yelling right in Joe’s ear.
“Shhh,” Joe said, if for no other reason than he didn’t need to hear Dickie’s voice, wanting to focus on the blade. One slip and it wouldn’t be good. He moved his hands back and forth. And did it again until he was in a groove.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The position he was in was making his neck sore. He was on the tile floor, and it didn’t feel too good on his knees either.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“I think I’m cutting through the rope,” he said, starting to feel excited.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He heard voices outside the door.
“Oh no,” he said, his voice hushed.
He moved his hands faster, knowing the knife was halfway through the rope. He felt it loosening.
“Someone’s out there,” Dickie said. “Hurry up.”
“I know. Just keep quiet. I’m moving as fast as I can.” His whole body was moving now, his hands in a seesaw motion over the blade. Any faster, he feared he’d slip and take a slice off his hand or jab the knife right into the artery in his wrist.
He felt the snap of the rope and lost his balance when it broke. He had so much pressure on the knife, he fell into it. The blade stuck him in the back. He wanted to scream, biting his lower lip, trying to hold it in.
But the rope was off his wrists. He brought his hands forward and rubbed his wrists. He turned to Dickie. “I’m going to grab the knife.” He felt for Dickie’s arms, then moved his way down his hands to the knife. “I got it,” he said, taking the knife from Dickie’s grasp.
Next thing Joe did with the knife was cut the rope and tape from his feet. He heard another noise somewhere outside the room. “We have to hurry,” he said. He felt around for Dickie’s hands again and quickly ran the knife back and forth, sliced through the rope in no time. He felt his way around and was in front of Dickie, feeling for the rope around his ankles. He put the knife where it needed to go and sliced through the rope. “You all right?” He felt for Dickie’s hand and helped him from the chair.
But Dickie fell into him, and Joe almost wasn’t ready for it, stumbling back but catching himself, helping Dickie get steady. “You all right? Can you walk?”
“Jesus,” Dickie said. “It’s like sitting on the toilet too long. You know what I mean? But worse.”
Joe moved Dickie toward the shelves or whatever it was they were in front of. “Stand here,” he said. “I gotta find a light.” With his hands in front of him, he felt along the wall. He touched cool glass, which was right where the tiny blue and red lights were, with the temperature reading. Not enough light to do much of anything for them. He felt up and down the wall as he walked along it, finally feeling a switch.
He flipped and the lights came on, almost blinding him as he squinted. He shielded his eyes from the brightness with his arm, until they adjusted.
Joe looked at Dickie, standing in front of shelves with at least two hundred bottles of wine. He was in much worse shape than Joe realized. Both of Dickie’s eyes were just about closed. Dried blood covered his face, swollen like he’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. “Jesus, Dickie. You sure you’re all right?”
“Am I sure?” Dickie shrugged. “No, I’m not sure. Now that the blood is rushing to my legs, it hurts even more. I’d have to guess something’s broken in my face.”
Joe looked at all the bottles of wine on racks and shelves against three of four walls, from the floor to the ceiling. He felt his back for the wound from the knife and brought his fingers around and saw the blood on the tips.
“Too bad you don’t like wine,” Dickie said. “It’s good for your heart, you know.”
They both turned to the door when the knob started to turn. Joe still had the knife in his hand. But he also grabbed a bottle from Wayne Latimer’s collection and stood with his back against the wall, to the left of the door. He flipped the switch and turned off the light.
The door opened, and the light from outside the cellar filled the room. Dickie stood in the middle of the cellar, staring toward the doorway.
A man Joe didn’t recognize raised a gun toward Dickie. “Hey, what the hell’s—”
Joe brought the bottle down on the man’s head before another word left his mouth.
The man’s body went limp and crumpled to the floor in a puddle of red wine or blood, or both, mixed with shards of glass.
Joe poked his head out the door into a room with red Spanish tiles on the floor with a small bar and pool table in the middle. He turned back to Dickie and nodded toward the man’s lifeless body. “Grab his gun.” He stepped out from the wine cellar and into the other room but stopped and looked back at Dickie’s swollen, beaten face. “You sure you’re all right?”
Dickie touched one of the cuts over his cheek, crouched down, and pried the gun from the man’s hand.
Chapter 32
Joe and Dickie leaned with their backs against the exterior of Wayne Latimer’s house. It was a narrow space, with a thick wall of trees and shrubs no more than ten feet away growing into the tall iron fence surrounding the property.
Joe could hear faint voices coming from the area out near the pool. He stepped to the edge of the house and crouched down to get a look around the corner.
Wayne was seated at a table, wine glass in hand, speaking to a man seated across from him.
Joe didn’t have to look twice to know he was, without a doubt, the same man who kidnapped Dickie. Dressed in black slacks and dark shoes, even in the Miami heat, the man’s muscles bulged from the tight black T-shirt painted over his large frame. The question remained whether or not his guy was the one allegedly killed in the explosion.
Maybe Tex was telling the truth and his name was Sid. But from the pictures Joe saw, he’d have to be convinced this guy wasn’t Rory Salander.
But at that point, it didn’t matter.
Joe looked at Dickie crouched down behind him and shifted his glance to the gun in Dickie’s hand. “Why don’t you give me that?”
Dickie shrugged. “What? Why? What am I going to use?”
Joe pulled the knife from the sheath strapped to his leg and handed it to Dickie. “Here, hold on to this. But the first thing I’m going to do is somehow get you out of here.”
Dickie nodded. “How are we going to do that?”
Joe ran his eyes through the trees and shrubs and down along the iron fence. Even if he could somehow climb over it—and he had his doubts—there was no chance Dickie could. “We’ll have to find a way. But I’m not leaving without Bart.”
Dickie leaned past Joe and tried to look out toward the pool. “How do you know he’s here?”
Joe pulled the back of Dickie’s shirt to keep him from being seen. “I don’t.” He stuck his head out just enough to see Wayne and his big friend getting up from the table. They both walked into the smaller house on the other side of the pool. Joe didn’t see Tex or anyone else besides the two men.
Dickie held the knife up in front of him and looked at both sides of the blade. “What do you expect me to do with this thing? I’m supposed to fight these guys with a knife? They have guns, Joey. You know what they say about the guy bringing the knife to a gunfight?”
Joe turned and started toward the same back door they came out from when they had escaped from the wine cellar. “Follow me,” he said. “But stay low, so nobody sees us from inside.”
“We going back in the house?” Dickie said.
“No, around to the other side. There’s a walkway, leads out to the driveway. I don’t know if the car I was driving is still there or not. But either way, you have to make it to the gate so you can get out of here. As soon as you do, you’ll need to find a phone, call the cops.”
“But I don’t have a phone,” Dickie said.
Joe nodded, looking back at him. “I know. That’s why I said you’ll have to find one. Knock on a neighbor’s door or something.”
Dickie paused, like he was thinking it through. “What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Who? The police? Ask for Sergeant Thomas.”
“Thomas? Wasn’t he the one busting our balls, trying to pin Maxine’s murder on us?”
“Just tell him Bart’s in trouble.” Joe continued along the house, staying up against the exterior’s siding to avoid being noticed. He looked over his shoulder at Dickie. “Sergeant Thomas is a good guy. And a good friend of Bart’s. You can trust him.”
“Uh, I’m not sure I can do that,” Dickie said.
“You don’t have a choice. You can trust Woody. It’s time to come clean anyway, Dickie.” Joe kept walking, hunching down as he walked past a window. Joe looked back and Dickie wasn’t moving. “Come on! What are you doing?”
Dickie was pulling at his chin. “I… I was just thinking. I call the cops, right? But what if the pastor makes up some story, like we’re trespassing or something. Or we broke in his house. He’s full of shit, you know. Everything comes out of his mouth is horseshit.”
“You were kidnapped, Dickie. The police know that. They’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, then, they didn’t look very hard. I mean, I’d have to guess I wasn’t the main subject at roll call.”
Joe grabbed Dickie by the shirt and pulled him along, leading him around to the other side of the house. He stopped before they reached the front of the house, Joe standing back from the corner, peeking out toward the pool from the opposite end of the house from where they just were. There was nobody within view. He could hear the gurgling sounds from the pool but nothing else. He turned to Dickie and pointed toward the walkway. “See that walkway?”
“Looks like a jungle,” Dickie said. He looked around. “I don’t remember seeing all this. Nice place. These church people do all right for themselves, huh?”
Joe kept his eyes on the door of the smaller house. It seemed to be clear. “Come on,” he said, stepping out into the open from behind the house. “Stay low.”
They walked across the cobblestone past one end of the pool, and hurried into the steamy, covered walkway. It was darker in the shade from the trees and shrubs, although streaks of light from the sun broke through as it moved lower in the sky.
“This humidity is awful,” Dickie said, pulling at the front of his damp shirt.
Joe nodded toward the other end of the walkway, pointing with the gun he’d taken from the man in the wine cellar. “Walk down that way, and you’ll see a gate at the end. It’s where we came in.”
“Who’s we?“ Dickie said.
“That guy Tex, the doorman from One Miami.”
“You came with the doorman? I thought—”
“Long story,” Joe said. “But he at least got me in here.”
“Oh.” Dickie turned and looked down the walkway. “You sure I should go? Leave you alone?”
“Just go. Get some help.”
Dickie took a step and turned back one more time, the concerned look stuck on his face. “You sure you’re gonna be all right, Joey?”
Before Joe could say another word, a man yelled from out by the pool.
“Hey! Stop right there!” he said.
Joe gave him a shove. “Go! Get out of here!” The shove was harder than he meant for it to be. He sent Dickie stumbling, tripping on his own feet as he fell, face-first, down on the cobblestone.
“Oh shit,” Joe said, rushing to help Dickie back to his feet with one hand. He had the gun in the other. But Dickie was too heavy. Joe had to tuck the gun into the waistband of his pants. He pulled Dickie up with both hands.
The man hurried toward them, and Joe recognized him as the one he’d knocked out in the wine cellar with red wine and blood covering his shirt.
“Hey! Get out here!” he yelled, running toward Joe and Dickie as he looked toward the smaller house. “They’re getting away!”
Dickie was up on his feet, twisting his arm to look at the blood coming off his elbows.
Joe pushed him again, with a little less force than the first time. “Get out of here!” he yelled, pulling the gun from his pants.
Dickie didn’t hesitate this time. He took off and moved as fast as his body would go, heading in the opposite direction, away from Joe.
Joe faced the man coming toward him and raised the gun, pointing it at him. “Don’t take another step.”
The man stopped, raising his hands. He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Sid! Wayne! Get out here. I need some help!”
The door of the small house swung open, and the big man came out, moving with long steps around the pool toward Joe. He had a gun in his hand a lot bigger than the one Joe was holding in his. He stopped and stood next to his unarmed friend and pointed the gun at Joe. “Drop the gun,” he said.
Pastor Wayne ran up behind the two men, almost in a waddle with his short, chubby legs moving as fast as they could beneath him. He pointed at Joe as if nobody else could see him. “He’s right there. What are you two waiting for?”
Joe moved the gun in his hand from one man to the other. His heart pounded in his chest. He knew he was either going to have to pull the trigger and shoot one of them, or take a bullet himself, which was something he wasn’t interested in. Not again.
But even if he did pull the trigger and shoot the big guy—the only one of the three, as far as he could see, who appeared to be armed—he wasn’t confident he could get off a good enough shot. He wasn’t even sure the gun he had was loaded.
He heard footsteps coming toward him from behind and turned with the gun pointed as Dickie stopped.
“Don’t shoot!” Dickie said, holding his hands up.
Dickie was holding a small pistol. And Joe realized it was the .38 Special, the same one Joe got from Juan but dropped back on the walkway. Dickie stepped up next to Joe and they both pointed their guns toward the three men. He whispered to Joe, “So, are we gonna shoot someone?”
Joe didn’t answer. And he wasn’t about to broadcast the fact the gun Dickie held in his hand didn’t actually work.
Pastor Wayne looked at Joe. “So, what’s your plan? Do you really think this’ll look good? You break into my home and shoot me and my friends? Because that’s how it’s going to look.”
Joe and Dickie exchanged a glance.
